Allspice and Passion Flower
by M. D. Jensen
Summary: Soon after Dean's confession in Children Shouldn't Play with Dead Things, the owner of an herbal shop tries to help the boys out, in her own way. The results are... schmoopy.


Disclaimer: not mine.

Note: Tea. I know nothing about it. Seriously, I got my meanings for herbs from www dot spelwerx dot com slah herb_correspondences, but I don't know if you would actually ever make tea with these herbs or in these combinations. Please don't poison yourselves trying to imitate, okay?

Note 2: this fic was inspired by the lovely ficlet 'Teary' by Mad Server and its original prompt:_ a sp__ell of some sort makes Dean constantly have to cry. At first he tries to stop himself from bursting into tears, but it's no use. He cries so much he becomes exhausted, and there's lots of hugging/comfort from Sam._ I thought it would be interesting to explore a scenario in which the spell was actually well-intentioned.

Summary: soon after Dean's confession in Children Shouldn't Play with Dead Things, the owner of an herbal shop tries to help the boys out, in her own way. The results are... schmoopy.

_Allspice and Passion Flower_

Tea is not Sam's thing. He forces himself to drink anyway. Hazel, their Wiccan hostess, hovers cheerily over them, making sure they finish all of it. "A special blend for every guest", she promises.

And damnit, she's just so _nice_, and it's just so _hard_ to meet nice people these days. So he finishes.

To his left, Dean is enjoying his own mugful more than he normally enjoys tea.

They pay Hazel for their new stock of herbs and leave the shop.

* * *

><p>Maybe they should've picked up a handful of echinacea, because Dean's looking a little shaky. "You okay, man?" Sam asks casually on the drive back, as Dean sniffs and rubs at his forehead. His reply is a grunt. Fine- whatever.<p>

There's no hunt at this very moment- hence the errands- so Sam suggests they hit the motel early and vegetate.

Sitting on their respective beds, Sam's sneaking sideways glances at his brother. Dean's frowning, rubbing his nose- coming down with something, it seems.

"Seriously, how you doin', man?" Sam calls over. Dean looks up. Blanches, blinks.

Bursts into tears.

"Shit," they say together, Dean's a groan, Sam's a bark. Sam's scrambling off his bed to Dean's but Dean's off his as well, flailing so frantically that Sam's stomach sinks even further.

"What is it?" he hisses.

"Hex- hex bag," Dean gasps, random movements calming until he's methodically patting down his clothing. "Check my duffel!"

"What hurts?" Sam demands, skidding across the room and doing as he's told.

"I don't know," Dean moans, checking his socks. Tears are streaming down his cheeks. "Find it, Sam!"

"There's no hex bags here!" Sam pushes himself to his feet, goes to Dean, and takes him by the shoulders. "What's. Wrong?"

Dean sniffs, shaking his head. Tears meld into a sheet of water under his eyes. "I d-don't _know._"

"Well, what makes you think you're hexed?" Sam's slightly panicked now, but determined not to show it.

Dean opens his mouth, sobs, closes his mouth again. "'cause," he growls, hardly parting his lips. Shrugs out from under Sam's hands.

"'cause why?"

"Cause _look_ at me, Sammy!" Dean howls.

"I am. You're crying. Whatever hurts has got to be terrible."

"Nothing hurts," Dean tells him quietly, barely reigning in the tremors in his voice. He's got one hand on his stomach, the other on his heart. "I just- I can't. Can't stop."

"What?"

"I'm just- and I can't- stop." Fresh tears swell up in Dean's eyes and spill down his cheeks.

Sam's breath is stuck in his chest. "That doesn't mean- that doesn't mean you're hexed."

"_What the hell else would it mean?_"

Sam blinks, and tries not to answer with the obvious.

_It would mean that Dad's dead._

"Go," Dean snaps.

"Go where?"

"That Hazel bitch." Dean scrubs angrily at his eyes; underneath his freckles are pale against his reddened face. "Only witch we've seen recently- it's got to be her."

"Hazel? She runs a Wiccan herb shop, Dean. White magic. Weak magic."

"Go."

"I am not," Sam snaps, taking Dean by the shoulders once more. "Not leaving you like this."

"And I am hexed and possibly dying, and you're just gonna _stand_ there!"

"Come with me, then."

Dean glares. "Ain't goin' out like this." He blinks wetly. "Sammy," he murmurs. "Please. I feel like- feel like m'chest is gonna- dunno. _Please_."

Sam goes.

* * *

><p>"Back so soon?" Hazel's voice is as pleasant as two hours ago, but Sam is much less pleased by it.<p>

"Yeah. Hey. Sorry. Listen." Sam takes a deep breath, stops speaking in aborted, half-word sighs. He feels like he should have a gun out, pointed in this greying woman's face, but he can't bring himself to do that. Something doesn't add up here. "Dean wants me to find out... I dunno. He's not feeling well, and, y'know... I wanted to see if he ran into anything in the shop accidentally." Sam shrugs. That's a good enough story.

Hazel frowns. "I'm quite careful wrapping anything that can poison on contact. What are his symptoms?"

Sam winces. "Um. It's... kinda weird."

"What?"

Her face is soft and rosy and her eyes remind him just a little of Jess's grandma. "He's crying," Sam admits, feeling his gut clench helplessly. "Like, really, can't-stop crying."

Hazel's soft rosy grandma face falls. "Oh dear."

"What? What did you do?" Sam growls.

"You said this was quite sudden? And, I assume, quite out of character?"

"Yeah." Sam nods. "Started out of nowhere. Dean's never like this. Do you know what happened?"

"I'm afraid this might be my fault," Hazel replies thoughtfully. "I'm sorry. Reactions are rarely this strong."

"To what?"

"My tea." She smiles tiredly. "I blend it specially for each guest, based on what I feel their soul most needs."

"Ooh-kay." Sam feels himself pulling a face. "What do you mean?"

"I gave your brother something of a special blend. Snowdrop eases sorry; honeysuckle promotes honesty. Fennel gives courage. The combination is meant to be... gently cathartic. But once or twice, I've heard of it causing a reaction like this."

Sam blinks. Wants to be mad but can't. "Maybe you should print a warning on your mugs or something?"

"I'm sorry, Sam," Hazel says warmly. "Truly. Reactions aren't typically this strong. I serve my blends to a dozen people a day, and I have for forty years. This is rare." She smiles again, so so sadly, and Sam's heart feels dangerously close to cracking. "But I can tell you, it means your brother's pain is deep. Very, very deep. The effects should last only a few hours longer, but maybe... maybe you can take this chance to talk to him about whatever's bothering him."

Sam snorts. "Ma'am, you don't know my brother."

"No, I don't," Hazel agrees. "But I do know my herbs."

"He's not gonna like this."

"Then keep him hydrated and tell him to sleep it off," she says simply. "Here's my card- call me if he's not feeling better by tomorrow morning."

Sam nods slowly, resigned, as he pockets the slip of paper, turning on a heel to leave. It only occurs to him to look back when he's almost out the door.

"What was my tea, Hazel?"

She expected the question, he can tell. "Allspice and passion flower."

"For?"

Her smile is no longer sad; now its intensity crinkles her nose. "Determination, and patience."

* * *

><p>Dean's cross-legged at the head of his bed, a pile of tissues at his side. The empty bottles surrounding him once held water, not beer, and Sam decides to take that as a good sign. His jacket and overshirt are gone, and he sits looking young in nothing but a t-shirt and sweats, scars shiny along his forearms. His breathing is even but his eyes are wet, and he jumps when Sam enters, though he shuts the door carefully.<p>

"So? Didja gank her?"

"Hazel didn't hex you, Dean," Sam tells him quietly, slipping his shoes off and padding to sit next to his impossible brother.

"Oh God, why are you sitting next to me?" Dean moans thickly. "What'd she do? 'm I dying?"

Sam smiles calmly. "It's okay, Dean. She didn't mean this to happen- it was her tea. She thought you needed to relax a little, but she says every one in a while it can do this."

"_What_?"

"The tea she gave you. For honesty, courage, and easing sorrow. It's- cathartic."

Dean's big eyes are bleary and dazed. "She gave me- PMS tea?"

"I doubt that's what she calls it."

"'m still not seeing why you didn't gank her."

"She says it shouldn't last more than a few more hours. Told me to call her if it's still going on tomorrow."

"'m gonna cry all night?" Dean whimpers, wiping his swollen nose for emphasis. "That's not cool, bro."

Sam shifts uneasily. "I mean... we could try something else."

"What?"

Sam sighs. Pictures Hazel in his mind's eye, saying, _allspice and passion flower._

_Determination and patience._

"If this is supposed to be cathartic, we could, y'know. Get it over with."

Dean sputters. "Say that again," he dares, his voice's sharpness damped by his throat's congestion.

"Talk to me," Sam clarifies, softly. He edges closer on the bed. "Dude. Some _stranger_ could see how much you carry around. I mean, some random Wiccan took it upon herself to help you get it out. Don't you think that's kind of telling?"

"'bout what?" Dean grumps.

"You," Sam murmurs. "About how sad you've been. About how guilty you feel. You told me- you said it. You don't even think you should be alive. And no, I can't make that better- but you know what else isn't gonna make it better? Pretending it's not there."

Dean's staring, and his expression is weird. Below the nose he's pissed- lips pursed, jaw set; above the nose he's anguished- eyes wide, brow crunched up like paper. Tears run down his cheeks, bridging the divide of anger and sorrow.

"Already fuckin' lost my shit once," he grumbles. "'n you want me to again?"

"Dean, you didn't lose your shit. You sat on the car and cried for like a minute. Hardly counts."

"It's a conspiracy," Dean whispers, shaking his head. "You planned this. Where'd you find her?"

"_Dude._ Seriously. You think- you think I like seeing you like this?" What started as a joke ends up a completely honest question, and Dean meets Sam's eyes for the first time in minutes.

The grief spills down, overtaking the ire, slackening his mouth, crumpling his chin. "Fuck," he whispers. Tears are pouring. "_Fuck_." Sam crab-walks up the bed, settling beside Dean against the headboard. "Don't you fucking hug me," Dean warns, but when Sam puts an arm around his shoulders he doesn't push it off.

"Oh, God," he bawls, breaking down into his hands. "This is stupid. This is so friggin' ridiculous."

"It is-" Sam begins, struggling to remember- "snowdrop, honeysuckle, and fennel."

"Fennel. Shit. I thought I tasted fennel," Dean sobs, hitting his hands against his thighs. Sam thinks he might have to laugh about that, later. Much later. "And now you know the recipe, and you're gonna whip up a batch whenever you wanna get me in a vulnerable position. Fuck. This is like roofies for someone like you."

"Shh," Sam whispers, smoothing a palm down Dean's upper arm. "Shh. You should hear yourself. You sound insane."

"You sound like you're enjoying this," Dean accuses bitterly.

Sam sighs, realizing of course that Dean isn't going to start this off. So, here goes nothing.

"I miss Dad."

Dean, who up until now has been shaking and thrashing and shifting his weight around, freezes in place like a TV on pause.

"I miss him so bad, man. We used to fight like dogs, but- oh my God. I would literally kill to see him again. Literally."

Dean is moving again, but only in powerless shivers- the still image shaking with static.

"Sometimes when I want to laugh about something, I stop myself. Cause how can I laugh when he's- y'know. Dead. And man, I dunno if you know, but I cry at night- like, at least one a week. Maybe I shoulda said something, but- you're so hard to talk to about stuff like this."

Tremors are pounding through Dean's body and Sam can hear the click each time he forces himself not to wail. He's breathless, beaten, slumping limply against Sam now whether he wants to or not.

"Say something," Sam murmurs, praying he's doing the right thing here.

"_Sam_," Dean whines, pulling his knees up, shrinking in on himself. "'m gonna strangle you. And 'm gonna strangle that Wiccan- _bitch_!"

He leans forward, slipping out of Sam's grip, resting his forehead on his knees and sobbing. It takes Sam a little while to realize he's still talking; when he does, he pulls his brother back up by one shoulder.

Dean's face is high-colored, glossed in patches and streaks; red swelling underlines his eyes and spreads out from his nostrils in a lopsided trapezoid. But suddenly his expression is calm and slack.

"Okay," he mutters, eyes shut. "Okay. I miss him. I don't know why you need to hear me say that, Sammy. My dad died- for me- and I miss him." He gulps and sniffs. "I think it's pretty fucking obvious. I dunno why you need to hear me say it."

"I don't, Dean," Sam replies smoothly. "You do."

Dean doesn't acknowledge Sam's voice, just continues thickly. "I think... I may never get over it. I dunno. Feels like somebody's followin' me around and kickin' me in the gut every ten minutes. And every time it gets better I feel like I get kicked again. Every time I feel like... I can catch a breath... 'member in the hospital? After I woke up, and something felt off..."

He trails off on a hitch. "You said you had a pit in your stomach," Sam recalls quietly.

"Yeah. Right. Well, it's still there. Never left." Dean's eyes blink open as though surprised by his own admission. He leans back against the headboard again and sighs, then picks up a tissue and blows his nose gurglingly. "Is this how it feels to be you?"

"What the hell do you mean by that?"

"No- hah, Sam, no, I mean- you just open your mouth and like, words just come out about how you fucking _feel_?"

Sam snorts out a half-laugh. "Um. Sometimes. 'snot really all that incredible."

"Mm. Well try, y'know, being a normal dude for twenty-seven years and then, _suddenly, Oprah_."

He's blinking rapidly, muscling back the tears that just want to keep coming.

"Let go, Dean," Sam says quietly. "It's not gonna stop unless you let it start."

"I'd call this pretty well fucking started," Dean whines, but Sam is waiting for the real show. For the real incoherency, the real surrender, the real and _acknowledged_ grief.

He leans across the gap between beds, arm long enough to easily snag his own comforter, and bundles it around Dean's shoulders.

It's like some kind of implicit permission, some kind of shield that Dean can hide behind even if the protection of it is only in his own mind. Dean burrows appreciatively into the blanket nest. Closes his eyes. And cries.

And cries.

And cries.

His body tips itself forward almost without consent, until he's bent at the waist, torso aligned with legs like some weird new stretch. He won't let Sam put his arms around him, won't let Sam pull him close, but he does let his brother rest a hand on his back and leave it there. Soon Sam is so exhausted, so terribly alive to the sorrow himself that he leans forward and presses his forehead next to his palm then inches his palm to the side until it's almost- almost- like he's hugging Dean, but backwards.

Dean cries.

And cries.

And cries.

When he finally stops, the silence is as startling as those few initial tears had been. He huffs a heavy series of breaths then fumbles blindly for a tissue and blows his nose again.

Sam is blinking sleepily himself, waiting for Dean to say something, do something- tell him to fuck himself, or push him off the bed. Instead Dean leans back, still cocooned in Sam's comforter, reaches a seated position then keeps going until he's stretched out on the bed. Sam shuffles a little to make room as Dean sighs.

"Remember that time Dad took us ice skating?" Dean's voice is like a car starting in winter. He clears his throat, staring calmly at the ceiling; tears are shining on his face but his eyes are dry.

"Yeah. I think- I think I was mad at him for something, wasn't I?"

"Yeah. Don't remember what. I don't think him taking us cheered you up at all, but- you remember?"

"Dad fell on his ass," Sam murmurs. "Like, coulda broken his tailbone hard. And you finally got him back on his feet-"

"- and he laughed. Busted out laughing. Thought he was gonna choke."

"I forgave him then. You knew that, right?"

Sam's been trying not to stare at his brother, been trying to offer some modicum of privacy to the man he spends twenty-three hours a day with. But now he has to look, to see the smile he hears in Dean's voice.

"I knew. Dad knew too." Dean sniffs. "God, everyone else at the rink musta thought we were insane. Three of us, just dying laughing over this grown-ass dude nearly cracking his head open."

"It was just- unexpected." Sam frowns.

"It wasn't." Dean eye's grab Sam's and Sam shifts under his brother's gaze, though he savors the genuine honesty he sees there. "Dad knew how to laugh. He just, y'know. Forgot about ninety-eight percent of the time."

Sam doesn't quite know what to say to that, especially since it brings him dangerously close to the instinctive urge to cry that he himself has been fighting all night. "How're you feeling?" he asks instead.

Dean blinks and breathes deeply. "Okay, I think. Tired as balls. But okay."

"That's good," Sam whispers, and it's not a dismissal or a cliche. This is genuinely good. "You should sleep."

"What time is it?"

"Almost nine."

"It's eight? Jeeze. Well, I guess you can add early bedtime to my list of embarrassing shit for the day. Cause this bed is frickin' warm and I am not getting out. You're not getting this blanket back, either, you know."

"Yeah, I kind of figured that." Sam feels like there's at least a dozen things to say- in reality, there are probably a hundred things to say, but not tonight. Tonight has been a blessing and Sam can wait for anything now. Anything.

Dean's breathing is already lengthening. Exhausted, Sam slips from the bed, pads back to his own and crawls wearily in.

He settles on, "good night, Dean."

Dean mumbles something soft and contented.

In the midst of the fit, of the anger that had to be purged just as much as the sadness, Dean had accused him of planning this. Of memorizing the PMS tea recipe for use at a later date. It's not like he'd been offended; tonight was hard for Dean, he knows, and certain defenses can never fall completely.

But Dean's wrong. That's not the recipe he's going to remember.

_Allspice and passion flower._

_Determination and patience._


End file.
